


the trials and tribulations of nursing your super huge, very hairy best friend back to health

by againstmygreeleaf



Series: full moon mode [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Chocolate, Crack, Gen, Gore, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Protectiveness, Violence, Weird Biology, Werewolves, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 08:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20132245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/againstmygreeleaf/pseuds/againstmygreeleaf
Summary: The one where Hunk is an injured, particularly cranky werewolf and Lance tries to help without getting mauled.Everyone does, really.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah! I have not posted anything in a bit of time, here. I'm just. Some things aren't great at the moment and I dunno, I don't really have time to write at the moment either. But I do plan on finishing my full moon mode collection. This is the whump fic! 
> 
> The main fic is primarily humor but I mean, I had to write a whump fic because angst and gore. So you don't have to consider this as falling into continuity of the main fic, if you don't want to. There's a little bit of mood whiplash between the two and whatnot. 
> 
> There is definitely going to be one more chapter to the main fic, but possibly two. And this fic will have five in total. 
> 
> I did not use Archive Warnings because I am unsure if they apply. I personally wouldn't consider the violence in this fic to be particularly gratuitous, but different people have different standards and that's totally fair. Same with the gore. My comfort level is not everyone's comfort level and I do want to warn for that. There is gore and it's less lighthearted than the gore in the main fic.

“Dude,” Lance groans, flinging open the refrigerator door and frustratedly motioning to the mostly eaten cake on the shelf. “I was gonna share this with everybody! You ate like half of it!”

“Sorry.” Hunk winces guiltily. “You know I get hungry before I change. By the way, your nephew is a pretty good baker. No lie. I mean, when do I ever lie about food?”

“You don’t and he’ll be thrilled to hear you think so— but not the point.” Lance kicks the fridge closed and whirls around, arms crossed. “I was saving this for our friends and now there’s only two slices left! So not cool, man.”

“I know, I know. I’ll bake you guys another cake,” Hunk promises. “I’m sorry, okay? To be fair, you should know not to leave food around me on a full moon night.”

“I thought it was safe, you never eat chocolate.”

“What?” Hunk’s face screws up in confusion.

“Since when do you like chocolate?” Lance asks, pretty confused himself. Hunk hasn’t touched the stuff as long as he’s known him and he’s known him for, like, ever.

“But it’s vanilla…”

“Uh, no. It’s a white chocolate raspberry cake, or it was, before you demolished— you okay?” His friend looks alarmed all of a sudden.

“Yeah,” Hunk says, slowly blinking. “I might’ve ate too much.”

“Might?” Lance raises a brow.

Hunk doesn’t rise to challenge. He takes a couple steps backward, edging toward the hallway.

“I’m gonna lie down for a little while before I change,” he says, voice all funky. There’s an uneasy glint in his eyes and the words sound wooden.

“You sure you’re okay?” Lance frowns, looking him over. “I’m kinda mad, yeah, but I’m not about to hold a grudge or anything. I know you’ll replace the cake.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Hunk mutters, soft and beaten, under his breath. Lance is half tempted to think he’s talking to himself.

“Hey, at least Sylvio will get a confidence boost out of this. Someone as picky as you ate half his cake. That’s the best compliment he could get.”

Hunk gives himself a little shake, offering Lance a sheepish smile.

Something still feels off, though Lance can’t place what.

“So is it still cool if I study with Plaxum tonight, or do you want me around?”

“I’m good,” Hunk says. “What time is Pidge coming over?”

“She didn’t give me a time, but she promised she’d be here before you change.”

Hunk gives a slow nod, ducks into his room, and shuts the door.

Okay then. That got pretty weird, but whatever. Lance shrugs to himself and takes one of the two cake slices left.

* * *

“Everything okay?”

Lance looks to the realistic fish mobile hanging from the ceiling and watches the blowfish twirl in a lazy circle, opposite its friends. His leg keeps bouncing. He can’t make it stop.

“Uh, Lance?”

“Sorry,” he says, snapping his attention back to Plaxum. “What’d you say?”

“Are you okay?” she asks, forehead creasing. “You’re zoning out.”

“I’m just worried about this test,” Lance covers sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’ve got every ocean zone memorized.” Plaxum smiles and stamps a star sticker to his cheek.

This is one of the things he adores about Plaxum. She’s fun and she likes to make everything else fun too. She quizzes him and rewards him with stickers when he gets it right because no one is too old for stickers and they bring life to Lance’s otherwise plain white binder. Glow in the dark celestial shapes pattern her walls. Her wheelchair has glittery streamers on the handles and plastic emojis in the spokes.

She’s a great study partner, but Lance just can’t get into it right now. It isn’t her or the homework, it’s just…something.

Something doesn’t feel right. When Lance first got here, he just thought it was the anticipation of the full moon. It’s routine, sure, but he isn’t watching Hunk tonight. He thought his uneasiness would lift once he got the confirmation Pidge was there to keep an eye on things, but he did, almost two hours ago, and he still can’t shake the feeling something is wrong.

It’s a gut deep inkling, no logical explanation for it.

“If you’re getting burnt out, we can take a snack break,” Plaxum says lightly.

“Sure,” Lance says. “Brain food don’t hurt.”

“Nope.” Plaxum wheels off to the kitchen and Lance flips through his flashcards, trying to concentrate.

He’s got the zones down but sometimes he gets mixed up about what lives in which. But the strange, baseless since of wrong veers his train of thought. He has no idea why he feels like this. Nothing bad’s going on. He sort of has a thing for Plaxum so maybe it’s kinda normal to feel a little flustered or something, but this isn’t like that. It isn’t a sense of awkwardness, it’s this gnaw of wrongness for no apparent reason.

Plaxum wheels back in with a bowl of corn chips on her lap. She places it on the table and Lance reaches over, digging out a handful. He tries to munch away his worries, savoring the salty flavor. Plaxum ruffles through some notes in one hand, the other absently crawling into the bowl.

Lance’s phone starts going. The spaceship music. Pidge.

He answers it and before he can even greet her, this agonizing animal scream tears through the speaker. Lance snaps to a stand like he’s been stung, gooseflesh prickling along his arms.

“You have to come back,” Pidge gasps, sharp catch in her voice. “Hunk is hurt!”

Lance looks up to the skylight where the moon above is a perfect silver sphere highlighted through insubstantial clouds. As long as that moon shines, Hunk is untouchable.

“He doesn’t get hurt,” Lance protests, stomach twisting as those guttural death throes continue beneath Pidge’s shaky pants. “What are you talking about? What’s making that noise?”

“Hunk!” Pidge snaps. “He stepped in a bear trap and I can’t get it off him! He’s freaking out, he won’t let me close!”

“Oh, shit.” Lance’s heart plummets.

“If he keeps thrashing around he’s gonna rip his leg off!”

“I gotta go,” he announces.

A concerned reply tumbles off Plaxum’s tongue, but it’s all crackling static to Lance’s ears. He’s already out the door, running down the ramp, phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder as PIdge prattles in panic on the other end. That wretched slaughterhouse scream can’t possibly belong to Hunk. Hunk is too human to make a noise like that, he’s human more often than he’s not and when he’s not, he’s too powerful to be hurt. This doesn’t make sense.

But whether it makes sense or not, it’s happening. Hunk’s torturous volumes drown Pidge’s voice out. There’s some interference, chopping up what he does manage to hear over them. Signal is bad in the woods.

Lance is in the car, hands shaking so bad he can scarcely grasp the steering wheel. The worst scream yet, this wretched noise ripped from the throat of a hellhound, stops Lance’s heart in his chest.

“Fuck!” Pidge shouts, almost a sob. He can hear the tears in the waver of her voice. “No, fuck—“

The call drops.

The drive to the trailer that follows is the longest one of Lance’s life, and yet the experience plays out almost like something that isn’t actually real at all.

He operates on autopilot, fueled by the wordless maelstrom of pure panic. Those horrible, bestial screams replay themselves in his head again and again, like a maddening, catchy tune in a commercial.

A hasty, haphazard pull into the driveway. Lance wrestles with his seatbelt and flings himself from the car so fast, he trips. He lands on his hands and knees, snow seeping past the fabric of his jeans. He scampers up and dashes to the backyard, running straight for the woods.

The echoes of the screams spur him forth, but in real time, there’s no sound other than that of snow crunching under his steps. He follows the tracks laid out before him, clearly distinguishable Hunk and Pidge tracks. The breadth between Hunk’s tracks is notable, he must’ve been running. After something?

Doubtful. Lance doesn’t see any sign of anything else. He becomes aware of the painful sting of cold wind against his ears and realizes he never put his coat on. His jacket is still tied around his waist.

He doesn’t stop to put it on. A dark, irregular swatch disturbs the snow up ahead and Lance scrambles toward it, heart sinking like a ship swallowed in a storm. He already smells that heavy metallic tang of blood, the familiar stench that floods his throat every time Hunk drops a freshly killed gift in his lap.

Lance brakes and almost gags as he gets a startling sight of just how much there is, splatters melting through the frost and a slushy puddle turned purple in the moonlight. Beyond it, more tracks, streaked and splotched with more alarming purple stains.

“Pid..ge,” he tries, voice petering out as horror rakes through him. He clears his throat, tries to fight it.

Hunk will be fine as soon as they get the trap off. He’ll insta-heal like he always does when he’s a lupine behemoth and go back to wagging his tail in five minutes tops. There’s no reason to be scared because there’s no real danger here.

“Pidge?” he calls, louder, hands cupped around his mouth as he begins to follow the trail.

Most of the snow is disturbed along the tracks, a bloody line where something weighty got dragged.

“Lance?” Pidge’s voice cuts through the still air, thin but clear.

She can’t be that far.

“I’m coming!”

Lance picks up the pace up to a sprint. Eventually a small shape outlined by the moonlight appears from a bend in the trees and heads in his direction.

“Lance!” she gasps, flailing her short arms in distress. She looks like a gummy bear in her winter gear, short and plumped up by thick layers and a goose down coat.

“Pidge, where— Holy crap, are you hurt!?”

There’s an alarming splatter across the coat and Lance reaches for her, just to have his hands batted away.

“No, no, it’s Hunk’s blood.” She swallows, lips trembling. “I got splashed when he ripped the trap out.”

“You mean he freed himself?” Lance asks hopefully.

Pidge shakes her head. “He ripped the trap out of the ground, but he can’t get it off.”

His hopeful flame snuffs itself out. “Shit. Where is he?”

“This way.” Pidge leads him down a path paved by more bloody slush and clumps of fur.

Lance hears Hunk before he sees him. No more screaming. Now he sounds more like a sick draft horse, labored, ratty panting. Lance turns to the sound and meets an orangish gaze flashing in the dark. Hunk’s holed himself up under a fallen pine. His lower body is obscured by the curtain of needly branches and Lance can’t get a good look at the trap.

Lance instinctively steps toward Hunk and Pidge grabs his arm, the frost that melts from her glove into his sleeve reminding him that he still hasn’t put his coat on.

“Wait.”

“We can’t wait, he’s bleeding!”

“Are you sure he’ll let you close?” she asks, tongue nervously flicking over her lips. “He growls at me.”

“Growls?” Lance echoes, stunned.

Hunk has never growled at a person before. Never.

“Bears his teeth too,” she adds wearily. “Look, I’m not mad at him. Bae Bae growled at me when that porcupine got her. She was hurt and scared, and Hunk is too. But Hunk is a lot bigger than Bae Bae…”

“Hey, Hunk has never anybody,” Lance reminds her sharply. “Rabbits, sometimes, sure, but he’d never hurt _you.”_

“Not normally, but right now he’s in pain.” Pidge shakes her head. “Anyway, he’s known you longer. Maybe he’ll be more comfortable with you.”

“But I don’t know how to release the trap,” Lance admits, lump forming in his throat. “Do I just pull it apart?”

“I— I don’t know,” Pidge stammers. “I thought you knew!”

“What!? Why the hell would I know how to release a bear trap?” Lance throws his hands up, fear fueling frustration.

“You live in the freaking forest!” Pidge opens her arms in an encompassing gesture. “You let Hunk run wild, I thought you were prepared for this kind of thing!”

“No, this has never happened before!” Lance groans and slaps his hand to his forehead.

A heavy thud makes him jump. Hunk’s collapsed on his side, struggling to get back up. Alarmed, Lance follows his first instinct and bolts over. As soon as he’s in reach, he is greeted with a growl. Shock roots him to the spot.

Nearly two decades they’ve been by each other’s sides and Hunk has never, ever growled at him. Not as a pup, not as a full fledged beast.

But as Hunk pulls himself back up to a wobbly, tripod stance, he growls at Lance again. He can see the trap now and fuck, does it look bad. The thing is clamped around Hunk’s hind leg, the blades or spikes or whatever they are embedded so deep Lance can’t actually see them. He can only see the blood dripping off his friend’s paw.

Hunk bares his front teeth, another growl rumbling out of him as his ears flatten to his skull. There’s a feral glow in those eyes and Lance knows a warning when he sees one. Gulping, he retreats until Hunk’s stare leaves him.

He swings his big head back and chews at the trap, the abrasive sound of teeth scraping against metal an assault to Lance’s eardrums. All the while Hunk trembles, swaying like a finch caught in a gale.

“Shit,” Lance hisses softly, the realization dawning. “He’s bleeding bad.”

“Might work in our favor,” Pidge says uncomfortably.

Lance’s jaw drops and he glares accusingly, Pidge throwing her hands up in defense.

“I don’t like it, Lance, but the sooner he passes out, the sooner we can get it off him without getting shredded!”

“Except neither of us know how to get it off!”

“I think Shiro does,” Pidge says. “I’ll call him, but I have to go back down the trail. There’s no reception over here.”

“Go ahead, I’ll keep an eye on Hunk.” Lance aches as he watches the werewolf’s legs buckle underneath him.

Pidge gives a brisk nod and runs back up the way they came. Hopefully she doesn’t have to go far to get enough bars for a call. Lance loses sight of her around the bend and turns his attention back to Hunk. Hunk attempts to stand again. It’s obvious he’s losing stamina. He crumples and falls to the snow once more.

On his side, he stretches his neck back and again tries chewing at the trap. Lance covers his ears although it doesn’t do much to drown out the sound. His fingers are cold. He’s bitterly, viciously cold all over, actually. He just hasn’t noticed until now.

Lance begins to untie the coat around his waist and another alarming noise from Hunk immediately steals his attention. His friend coughs, the first time Lance has ever heard him do so in this state. He coughs and it is deep and thick, bloody matter spraying between his teeth. It happens again, twice more in quick succession, and by the third time Lance is racing over.

How a leg injury has him hacking up blood, Lance doesn’t have the faintest clue. All he knows is that it’s happening. He needs to get this horrible thing off his friend. If Hunk’s coughing up blood, he does not have the luxury of waiting for Shiro’s instructions.

Hunk gives another growl but Lance barely acknowledges it. He crouches beside him and grips the jaws of the trap. He tries to, anyway, blood slicks the metal, his fingers slip. Lance quickly wipes his hands off on his pants and gets a better grip, straining as hard as he can to pull the jaws apart.

Things happen so fast it’s dizzying.

Hunk yelps, swipes out a forepaw. Lance hears the slice before he feels the pain. It sounds like freshly thawed beef does when you begin to break it into chunks. He glances down, sees the furrows in his arm. Strips of his torn sleeve delicately flutter down to the snow.

Blood streams from the claw marks in currents dyed violet in the dark.

It’s like the visual triggers the pain. The moment Lance processes that yes, it’s his arm he’s staring down at, it burns like wildfire. Hunk only grazed him but even the tips of his claws flayed the flesh.

“Oh,” he whimpers softly.

Lance looks up to the beast that is his best friend, swallowing. Searing pain pulsates outward from the slashes and if he didn’t feel it, didn’t see it, he wouldn’t be able to believe it just happened. Hunk just hurt him. Intentionally or not, Lance can’t quite tell and the realization chills his spine. He clutches his injured limb, warm blood seeping through his fingers. His stomachs roils with some emotion that’s probably supposed to be betrayal or outrage.

Hunk regurgitates another stream of viscous, bloodied mess and falls slack like he doesn’t have the strength to hold up his head. More blood trickles from his nostrils in thin streams and the only thing Lance truly feels is worry.

Lance finally unties his coat and pulls it on carefully, biting back a cry as the fleece insulation seems to scrape against his open wounds with all the gentleness of steel wool. He zips it up and takes a breath, refocusing. He can take care of himself later. He has to take care of Hunk first, Hunk is losing blood and declining and starting to scare the life out of him.

“Why are you coughing it up?” he begs for an answer he knows Hunk does not have.

Hunk’s gaze shifts in Lance’s direction. He blinks slowly, doesn’t move otherwise. Lance isn’t sure whether he should take the risk of touching him. He doesn’t want to lose a hand, but how can he get the trap off without touching him?

For all his intent to take care of Hunk, he finds himself at a loss for what to do. Manually pulling the trap off clearly isn’t the way to go. Hunk tries to stand again. He’s as stable as a bowl of gelatin on the edge of the counter, wheezing with effort. He awkwardly lurches forward and crashes back to the snow. Lance is powerless to do anything about it.

Not long after, Pidge comes back into view. She hurries up, but stops before she can get in Hunk’s range, shooting Lance a surprised look.

“He let you close?”

“Yeah, but…” Lance trails off instead of telling her about getting scratched. If he does that, she’s going to want to take a look, or get him to go back to the trailer, and maybe she’ll even get scared of Hunk.

“But what?”

“But he’s coughing up blood,” Lance tells her instead. It’s the more urgent problem at hand. “Do they poison the traps?”

“No,” she says, brows hiking. “I’ve never heard of that. Shiro didn’t say anything about it either. He explained how to get it off, but it might not work if the springs are too taut or rusty. He and Keith are coming out with some tools in case we can’t get it.”

This news makes Lance feel marginally better.

“How do we get it off?”

“We have to close the springs.”

Lance warily edges closer to the trap and this time Hunk doesn’t growl. He heaves this wet, raspy sound and as Pidge tentatively ventures into his space, doesn’t even raise his head. This is somehow relieving and concerning at the same time.

“Those are the springs,” she elaborates, pointing to these triangular components of the trap. “You push one side while I get the other, and we ease his leg out.”

Lance tenses, suddenly conflicted. They need to get this off Hunk, yeah, but he doesn’t want Pidge in the line of fire if Hunk lashes out again, either.

“I’ll try pushing the springs down myself first,” he suggests. “You shine the flashlight on your phone so I can actually see them.”

“Oh, okay,” Pidge agrees easily, whipping her phone out.

She holds the light over the area and Lance plants one hand on each spring, pushing down as hard as he can. His wounded forearm protests in silent wails, sharp pain shooting sparks through his vision. He can feel the slick, warm tracks of blood almost tickling as they trickle down his skin. He does his best to ignore it.

The springs hardly budge. They move in infinitesimal increments far too slow for Lance’s comfort. With the light of Pidge’s phone, he can see that the trap is freaking caked in rust. The rust scratches his palms and his injured arm starts trembling, burning for his attention. He can’t do this. It’s too much, he’s going to have to wait for Shiro’s tools.

Hunk hacks, his whole body jerking. Lance hears a splatter and suddenly the strength he needs is in his grasp. He shoves with a renewed force, the pain and the bitter cold absorbed by the adrenaline. A ghastly grinding noise rises from the trap, like someone scraping a cheese grater against a chalkboard. At last the jaws open and before Lance can warn her of the risk, Pidge swoops in and yanks Hunk’s leg free.

But Hunk doesn’t do anything more than twitch, and Lance feels the flash of fear fade away. He lifts his hands and the jaws snap back together. It’s over.

No harm done, right?

Hunk will calm down once he’s healed, which never takes longer than a minute or two. Lance isn’t as lucky. His arm is still searing and it’s going to need more than a couple bandaids slapped on. How much more, he won’t know until they get to the trailer and he can get a good look in the light. So it’s not totally over. But thankfully the hard part is over. Hunk is out of danger.

Wait, Hunk should be out of danger.

Why does it look like he’s still bleeding?

Blood sluggishly seeps down from Hunk’s torn hock into the snow. And it just doesn’t stop. The cup-sized punctures do not knit themselves back together. The swelling around them does not decompress. The patches of torn out fur do not grow back.

Lance can’t believe what he isn’t seeing.

“What?” leaves his lips, low and soft, like he’s sheepishly asking a professor for some clarification in class.

Hunk answers with another thick cough and Lance’s bewilderment immediately reverts back to panic.

Pidge drops her phone as her hands fly to her face with a loud smack.

“He had chocolate.”

“Huh?” Lance gawks at Pidge like she’s gone cuckoo. It’s just such an off the wall thing thing to say. “Hunk is bleeding, what the hell does chocolate have to do with anything?”

“Everything!” Pidge shrieks, flailing urgently. “Chocolate reverses his accelerated regeneration!”

“Wait, what?” Lance blinks rapidly, dumbfounded.

“He coughed up blood, Lance, he’s bleeding inside! His healing factor backfired!”

“He never told me about that!” Lance gasps, heart pounding. “Shit, when does it wear off?”

“I don’t think it does,” Pidge stammers nervously.

“No, no way, then he could…” Lance breaks off, swallowing. He refuses to say _die_. “We’ve gotta get him back home.”

The trailer was well lit, had a first aid kit and warmth.

“How are we supposed to do that?” Pidge squawks. “We can’t carry him!”

Lance doesn’t have an answer. Hunk moves around a bit, lifting his head from the pillow of blood speckled snow. He looks not at Lance or Pidge, but between the trees, panting. Dark liquid drips off his lolling tongue. His shoulders tense like he’s readying to rise, but the rest of his body doesn’t follow through. A shudder ripples through his frame and then he goes limp. He’s fatigued but conscious, eyes cracked open in autumn leaf slivers.

But Hunk is stubborn and sturdy, and even though he’s wounded, the trap itself is no longer a hinderance. He draws himself up on three wobbly legs and Lance isn’t sure if he should urge him forward or ease him back down. A piercing stab through his arm insists that he shouldn’t rush into either action. He should be on standby and wait to see what Hunk actually does before stepping in, to gauge what kind of responses may be poorly received.

Hunk starts hobbling back the way they came, head hunched and tail tucked low. His balance is a precarious thing and any moment Lance expects him to fold to the frozen ground like a prodded house of cards. There are close calls but Hunk tenaciously chugs along. He doesn’t growl at Lance or Pidge the way he did before, but he seems to prefer it when they’re in front of him.

The closer they are to his injury, the more unsettled he gets. He hikes his leg up even higher and picks up the pace to his own detriment. It’s clearly paining him, and Lance realizes that’s why he got scratched. Pulling on the trap made it worse.

“Damn it,” Lance groans, heart wrenching as he watches his friend struggle. “Even when we get back to the trailer, I don’t know what to do for him! He doesn’t want his leg handled, and I don’t know the first thing about what’s going on inside! How do you treat internal bleeding!?”

“As soon as I get enough bars, I’ll call Allura,” Pidge says, swallowing back the quaver in her voice. “She has to know what to do. Her office must be full of pets who get into rat poison.”

“Rat poison?”

“A lot of rodenticides are anticoagulants,” Pidge huffs, evidently hellbent on playing Big Word Bingo tonight. She holds up her phone and frantically throttles it as though she can force the reception to appear.

“But it’s not the same thing,” Lance frets, holding his breath as Hunk stumbles. 

Hunk makes a low, wheezy noise and then gags, spewing up some more fluid. He’s trembling, panting heavily. A few disoriented steps sideways almost sends him sprawling. His tenuous recovery is visibly fraught with strain, his body racked with trembles, his tail stuck out and as stiff as a wire brush.

“Good job, tough guy,” Pidge praises, forcing a warm, sunny tone. “Just keep that up until we get you home.”

Hunk’s ear twitches in her direction and almost as though he can understand, he pushes himself forward.

But there’s this this deep dread rooted in Lance’s gut that if Hunk goes down, he isn’t getting back up. And Pidge was right, they can’t carry him. Hunk is huge and trudging through the snow is hard enough on Lance as is, with his arm aching and the polar cold gnawing through his soaked jeans.

When they make it around the bend in the trees, Pidge gets signal back. She already has Allura pulled up, and all it takes is a quick tap to put the call through. She does not pick up on the first ring, nor on the second, and Lance’s anxiety spirals. Hunk could be in dire peril here, and she’s their one shot at some kind of direction.

“Hello?” Allura finally answers, breathing a yawn.

“What’s the cure for anticoagulant poisoning!?” Pidge splutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Hunk’s hurt! He’s bleeding inside and out, and it’s really bad!” Lance exclaims.

“This is an emergency,” Allura realizes, voice sharpening.

“No shit!” Lance curses urgently. “He’s coughing up blood!”

“Is he in shock?” Allura asks, and Lance can tell she’s put them on speaker phone as the sounds of movement carry through the speaker.

“Um, he’s still walking, so…no?” Pidge offers dubiously.

“What color are his gums?” Allura asks next.

“We’ll have to get back to you on that one,” Lance says. “It’s dark out here and getting near his teeth is a bad idea right now.”

“Can’t you change him back with the clicker and take him to the hospital?”

“Clicker doesn’t work on the full moon, Allura!” Lance doesn’t mean to snap, but his panic is mounting.

“Damn it,” Allura hisses.

“We’re trying to lead him back to the trailer, but he’s flagging pretty bad,” Pidge adds, nervously licking her lips.

“I’ll grab some supplies and come out,” Allura says, and Lance can hear more movement in the background. “It sounds serious, I can’t guarantee I’ll be of much help, but I’ll try.”

“He needs all the help he can get,” Lance mutters.

Allura replies but weirdly, Lance doesn’t really register it. He isn’t sure if it’s the emotional turmoil or the physical strain, but he’s starting to zone out. His vision’s sort of wavy at the edges. His arm burns distantly and his legs prickle with cold. Lance would probably be concerned about this if Hunk wasn’t coughing up blood. But Hunk is coughing up blood and his own troubles are minor in comparison. He doesn’t have any room to worry about himself when his fear for Hunk’s well being blazes like a silent inferno with every wobbly step the werewolf takes.

But he keeps taking them.

Thank everything, he keeps taking them, one after the other, hobbling along at a steady pace as he huffs and puffs like the wolf in the Three Little Pigs. The trail of blood documents the journey of what’s normally a mild stroll in the woods for both of them. A trail that will melt away with the morning’s light and Lance can only hope that the pain melts away just as easy. That Allura will have something to tide Hunk over until he recovers his healing factor, and then all will go back to normal.

Lance sorely wishes he had a healing factor of his own, but he isn’t angry at Hunk for the scratches. It’s his own fault. He jumped the gun, ignored the signs that said ‘back off.’

Hunk pauses mid-step and raises his nose in the air, sniffing audibly.

Pidge stops too, pulling a frown as she glances back to him. “I’m sure there’s a lot of distracting, stinky things back here, but we’ve gotta get you home, big guy. You’re bleeding.”

Hunk ignores her. His ears swivel, then perk, tail lifting just so in interest. Lance recognizes that.

“You said Shiro and Keith are coming?” he asks Pidge.

“Yeah.”

“They’re here.”

And not ten minutes later, when the trailer is in sight, Shiro jogs up to meet them at the edge of the trees.

“You freed him, goo—“ Shiro breaks off, wordless horror washing over his face as he takes in the sight of the blood.

“Yeah, he’s not out of the woods,” Pidge mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “I mean, he is literally, all three of us are. Metaphorically? Not so much.”

“How?” Shiro splutters.

“Chocolate, apparently.” Lance slaps his forehead and stumbles a bit.

Shiro steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Maybe not okay, exactly. He’s starting to feel a little lightheaded and it’s something he almost admits to. But watching Hunk limp toward the trailer immediately reminds him of his primary concern.

“Tired,” Lance says, pulling away. “Gotta get the door for him.”

“I got it,” Keith calls. He’s closer to the shed, but apparently in earshot, and Lance is a bit surprised he didn’t notice him earlier.

He hurries up the steps and holds the door open. He starts whistling, guiding a rather disoriented Hunk in the right direction. Lance plods his way over, holding his breath as Hunk’s hinds tense in preparation for the jump upward. Can he even make it with that injury?

Barely.

Hunk launches and the paw of his bad leg clips the top step. Keith ducks out of the way as he crashes into the kitchen with a heavy thud and a feeble yelp. His tail hangs over the edge of the step and Keith hastily toes it inside so it doesn’t get smashed in the door. Pidge goes up next, Lance and Shiro following.

They have to step around Hunk’s mass. He isn’t getting up. His eyes are closed.

“Get a towel,” Shiro barks to Keith, crouching near Hunk’s head.

“Careful,” Pidge warns. “He’s been growling!”

Shiro responds with a quick nod, but lifts the flap of Hunk’s lip to take a peek at the gum anyway. Normally they’re dark pink, but they’re currently gaunt gray where they’re not bleeding, red where they are. And they’re bleeding a lot.

“He’s in shock,” Shiro reports. “Lance, get some blankets.”

Hunk isn’t moving. Shiro’s probing around in his mouth and Keith is gruffly binding what Lance knows is very painful injury with towels, but Hunk isn’t reacting to any of it. He’s been bleeding for what feels like hours, he used up the last of his juice springing over the steps, and now he’s not even twitching.

“Lance!”

Fear crashes over him like a tidal wave, strong enough to knock him off his feet. He doesn’t realize he’s mid-faint until Keith springs and latches onto his arm. The immediate pain dispels the sudden fog in his head, sharp and piercing. He can’t choke back the thin cry that leaps off his tongue.

He can’t stop Keith from pushing up his sleeve either, it happens too fast and sends another renewed rocket of pain up to his shoulder.

“Holy shit!”

Lance blinks down at the gouges, which look even nastier in the light of the trailer. Blood weeps fervently around the open, gummy pink meat rent open by unmistakable claw marks.

“He didn’t mean it,” Lance finds himself babbling, because Hunk is in enough trouble as it. “Don’t be mad at him, he didn’t do anything wrong! He was hurt and I wasn’t thinking, and he just reacted. It’s not his fault and I’m fine anyway, I’m fine…”

“How long’s it been like that?” Pidge splutters, splitting her attention between Lance and patting a blanket down over Hunk. Hunk doesn’t respond to this either and Lance’s stomach lurches.

“I’m fine,” he repeats absently, but his vision shimmers at the corners, and the next thing he knows, Keith is righting him up again. “It’s nothing.”

Shiro comes over to take a better look and after an evaluation that takes all of three seconds, he says,

“Hospital.”

“What? No, just get me a towel, I’m f—“

“Keith, help him change into something dry and run him to the ER.”

“But Hunk,” Lance protests, gulping as his anxiety heightens.

“We’ve got Hunk,” Shiro promises wearily.

“Allura’s coming too,” Pidge reminds him. “You can’t help Hunk if you keel over.”

And Lance wants to protest some more but Keith is already dragging him to his room.

Keith sits him down on the bed, says something about getting his pants off but Lance barely registers it, too caught up in the vortex of panic crushing his chest.

“I can’t go. What if he gets scared again and I’m not here to calm him down?”

“That obviously didn’t work the first time.”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that!” Lance swears. “I messed up, you can’t be mad at him. No one’s mad at him, right? I know better, he doesn’t, it was my—“

“Lance!” Keith seizes his shoulders. “You need to calm down. No one is mad at Hunk, no one’s going to punish him for scratching you. But he did scratch you and you need help. There’s no way around it, we have to go. The sooner we go, the sooner you can come back to him.”

Lance tries to steady his nerves, but he’s still reeling and every breath stabs his chest.

“You need dry pants,” Keith repeats, every word slow like he’s talking to a child.

“What if Hunk gets worse and I’m not here?” Lance rambles fretfully. “What if he doesn’t…”

His throat is too thick to complete the thought but he feels a strikingly grim urge to call Hunk’s parents.

“Shiro won’t let that happen.” Keith declares with no trace of uncertainty. “Come on, Lance. You gotta work with me here.”

“Okay,” he agrees reluctantly.

Wrestling his jeans off is challenging. They’re so snow soaked they cling to his skin and his wounds are increasingly painful and less ignorable. Keith has to help him, which would be super awkward if there were room in Lance’s head for things other than the dire scene of Hunk bloodied and collapsed in the kitchen.

Midway through getting new pants back up, he hears Allura’s hasty entrance. A curse and the rattle of the door in its frame as it bangs closed behind her. Lance fumbles and Keith helps him with this part too.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, frowning.

Honestly, Lance feels like he might pass out. Or throw up. Or both.

“Maybe I need a towel?” he wonders after a beat, looking down at his arm.

“A towel is a good idea. So is your wallet.”

“Right.” He’ll need his ID, insurance card.

A feeble yelp from the kitchen immediately steals his attention. Lance scrambles, clumsily knocking into Keith as he stumbles to the kitchen. Hunk’s picked his head up a bit and Lance would be utterly relieved, if it weren’t for Pidge and Shiro trying to blindfold him with what appears to be a sweater.

“You’re freaking him out!”

“We don’t want him to snap,” Allura says without even glancing at him, rifling intently through this big duffle bag.

Logically, Lance knows this makes sense. He doesn’t want anyone else to join him in the ER. Or worse. His head knows this is a good idea, but his heart protests. Emotionally, it’s killing him to see Hunk in distress and getting blinded while he’s already so weak is clearly distressing him. He whines so soft it’s scarcely audible, ears swiveling back as Pidge ties the arms of the sweater to hold the makeshift blindfold in place.

Shiro gets up and carefully steps around Hunk, coming over to put a hand on Lance’s shoulders.

“It’s a necessary precaution. He already lashed out at you.”

“But he didn’t mean it!”

“Of course not,” Shiro says ardently. “Hunk’s scared and hurt and he lashed out reflexively.”

Pidge had said something similar earlier. She compared Hunk to Bae Bae. Compared him to her _pet_. Lance swallows, whipping his head in a firm shake. One a month Hunk is big and furry and sure, maybe he does act a little bit like a pet on those nights, but that’s no excuse to treat him like one.

“Hunk’s not one of your dogs, Shiro, he’s my best friend! He’s not some sick animal!”

“Absolutely not, but he is thinking like one,” Shiro replies calmly. “I don’t blame the shark that hurt me. I was in its territory and it reacted. No one blames Hunk for hurting you or thinks he’s an animal. But that is his mindset right now, and we need to curb his potential to react reflexively so he doesn’t hurt anyone else. And you need to go with Keith.”

Keith hovers a couple lengths away, a towel in one hand and Lance’s wallet in the other.

“Right,” he agrees, wilting tiredly. “I know…”

He takes the towel from Keith, pressing it flush to his ravaged arm. He sidles reluctantly to the door, but a flash of movement from Allura stills him in his tracks.

She stabs a syringe into a brown glass bottle and Lance’s stomach clenches. “What is that?”

“Don’t distract me, Lance.” Allura deftly pulls the plunger without even glancing his way, liquid filling the plastic barrel.

Keith’s hand finds the small of his back and he gives a gentle nudge that’s both comforting and reproachful. Right, okay. It’s time to go. Lance spares one last glance to Hunk and forces himself to walk over the threshold and down the steps.


	2. Chapter 2

“So you got attacked by a bear?”

“Uh-huh. Big bear.”

Lance stares down at heated blanket in his lap, given because apparently he’s presenting symptoms of mild hypothermia. Hunk has ensured that he’s no stranger to gore but he’s already seen his fair share of it tonight and he doesn’t particularly want to watch the stitching of his own torn up flesh.

“We could contact animal control for you,” offers the woman in scrubs. She’d given Lance her name and he feels slightly guilty for not remembering it.

“No,” Lance protests immediately, head snapping up. “It wasn’t the bear’s fault, it was mine. It…it had a cub. And I got too close.”

“Then it’s a miracle it didn’t do any worse than this. They’re especially aggressive when they’re protecting young.” She prods at his arm. “Numb yet?”

“I don’t think so.” It feels somewhat tingly but not numb, exactly.

“Alright, we’ll give it a couple more minutes to kick in. In the meantime, I can give you your shot.”

“Huh?”

“Antibiotics, hun. We give them to everyone who gets attacked by wild animals. Usually the rabies vaccinations too, but thankfully you weren’t bitten.”

“That would’ve been bad,” Lance mumbles tiredly, though it’s not the rabies virus he’s thinking about.

She gets up to prepare the shot and Lance looks to Keith.

“Any update?”

Keith shakes his head.

Lance swallows and tries to banish the worst case scenarios that crawl into his head. Miss Scrubs comes back and swabs a spot on his shoulder, and he feels a pinch as the needle pierces his flesh. She disposes of that syringe in the plastic unit mounted to the wall, and then prods at his arm again.

“Numb?”

“Yeah.” Lance nods. The tingly feeling has given way to a frozen one, and her touch barely registered.

Before the stitching takes place, Miss Scrubs throughly cleans each furrow. Lance feels the mild spray of the saline but there definitely isn’t pain. The only thing that bothers him is the duration. He doesn’t want to be here all night, he’s anxious to get back to Hunk.

“Keith…?”

He shakes his head again.

“Doing okay?” Miss Scrubs asks.

“Mhm.” Lance drums the fingers on the hand that isn’t numb along the vinyl padding of the cot.

The stitches hurt no more than the cleaning did. There’s somewhat of a dull pressure, but it is far away and very slight. Despite his efforts not to look, he steals peeks now and then to keep an eye on the progress. It doesn’t gross him out, but it is mildly unsettling. He’s accustomed to Hunk dropping dead things in his lap, used to having forest critters’ intestines splayed across his jeans, seeping and moist.

But it’s different looking at his own shredded skin. Watching the thin, nylon thread pull it together but being detached from the sensation of it all. This part takes even longer and his anxiety mounts with every unfelt poke of the needle into his flesh.

He feels like he’s been sitting here for days by the time Keith’s phone vibrates.

“It’s Pidge,” he reports, solemn as he reads over the text. “Good news, Allura got his blood to clot.”

Lance exhales a weighted breath, relief washing over him in a dizzying typhoon.

Miss Scrubs glances up from her task, brows hiked.

“Did someone else get attacked?”

Keith and Lance exchange looks.

“No,” Lance answers. “It’s just, uh, my dog. My dog got into rat poison.”

“Oh my.” She clucks her tongue. “Poor fellow.”

He’s still worried about Hunk, but it’s easier to wait knowing he’s doing better, at least.

Lance loses track of the number of stitches after twenty. He’s exhausted and it’s not something that’s particularly important to keep up with. She’ll be finished when she’s finished. There’s a television in the corner and an informercial plays on mute.

Keith gets him a cola from the vending machine and unscrews the cap for him, so Lance doesn’t have to struggle to do so one-handed. Lance figures he’s probably getting antsy too. Keith is more comfortable in quiet atmospheres, and the hospital is not quiet.

The halls are always bustling. People keep talking over the intercom. Lance’s room is not a private one— there’s like three other beds in here separated by only curtains. Snippets of the conversations between those patients carry over, sometimes overlapping. The dude two beds down gets snappy with the medical personnel a couple times.

But if Keith is antsy, he doesn’t complain. His knee bounces now and then, and he squeezes the arm rests or taps his foot, subtle signs that he’s impatient to get out of here.

“You warming up?” he asks Lance at some point, briefly glancing to the blanket with a trace of concern.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat of thinking about it. “I didn’t really notice how cold I was earlier.”

“There was a lot going on,” Keith says neutrally, sitting back.

Lance bobs his head.

HIs arm looks weird when the stitches are finished. Not as ugly as it looked when his wounds were open and spilling, but still weird. The tracks of threads are raised and sort of bumpy. Like chipmunk tunnels cutting through the ground. Then comes the bandaging, which is another process in itself. Lance isn’t sure why he needs both stitches and bandages— he was really hoping to hop in the car as soon as the stitches were done. But apparently they’re necessary for the drainage he’s told to anticipate. Drainage and protection, that is.

Keith’s phone buzzes again, stealing Lance’s attention.

“Pidge again,” he mutters, scrolling down. “Hunk’s looking for you. Or they think he’s looking for you, anyway. He seems confused and he’s sniffing around your room.”

“He’s up?” Lance blinks rapidly.

“Guess so.” Keith looks up. “That’s good, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Lance wonders if his healing factor kicked back in. Maybe when whatever Allura gave him got his blood to clot, his natural regeneration recovered. That would be awesome.

Keith’s phone buzzes again. This time he frowns at it and Lance’s stomach drops.

“What?”

“It’s— Don’t freak out, Hunk is okay. He’s just having a hard time. I guess he fell trying to get up on your bed.”

Lance’s heart twists in his chest. Hunk is tall and getting on the bed is basically like taking a big step more than anything. He doesn’t have to hop up like an actual dog (or Pidge) would. If he fell just trying to do that, there’s no way his healing factor’s working.

“Tell Pidge to pull the futon off the frame,” Lance decides. “They can move the coffee table and lay it on the floor. That way he can lay down without hurting himself.”

“Will do,” Keith says, thumbs already tapping away.

* * *

Eventually Lance is discharged, thoroughly stitched, heavily bandaged, and equipped with an information packet on caring for his sutures. The sky is beginning to lighten, though it’s not quite sunrise yet. He’s so tired he can hardly see straight. Keith must be tired too but just like in the ER, he doesn’t mention it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Sure,” Keith says. “No problem.”

Lance leans back in the passenger’s seat and tries to make sense of his packet. It’s like five pages long and he’s feeling pretty braindead.

“You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, just tired. She said to take some over the counter stuff if it hurts later, but it’s still pretty numb right now.”

“That’s good…but it’s not what I meant. Hunk scratched you…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not going to sprout fur and start howling, are you?”

Lance snorts, shaking his head.

“Nope. Doesn’t transfer through scratches, just bites.”

“So you’d only be like him if he bit you?”

“I’d be a werewolf,” Lance clarifies, “but I wouldn’t be like Hunk at all.”

“Oh.” Keith’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t know exactly how bad it is though,” he goes on. “It’s not the kind of thing that comes up a lot.”

“So what if he bit something else? Like a regular wolf? Would it be a werewolf-wolf?”

Lance barks out a laugh and smacks his palm to his forehead.

“Did you seriously just ask me that with a straight face?”

“What?” Keith remarks defensively. “It’s a valid question!”

“I don’t know, man.” Lance’s smile fades and he gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve…never actually seen Hunk bite anything he didn’t finish off.” 

* * *

Lance is nearly asleep in the seat, but the moment Keith pulls up to the trailer, he somehow finds the energy to run. The snow crunches beneath him as he sprints up the steps and flings the door open. He charges in so fast he nearly crashes into the counter.

Orange eyes immediately snap open and Hunk pokes his head out from under the blanket nest his friends have tucked around him. They followed Lance’s suggestion, hooking him up in the living room by pulling the futon onto the floor. Hunk is bundled in about ten blankets, but the moment he sees Lance, he’s trying to shake them off.

“No, no,” Shiro and Allura scold in unison. “Stay down.”

They bodily usher Hunk back down and Lance realizes, wow, he must be weak, because their efforts are successful. He hurries over before Hunk can make another attempt, throwing his arms around his neck.

“Hi, buddy!”

Hunk fervently laps at Lance’s chin, over and over.

Lance crawls onto the futon and cradles Hunk’s colossal head to his chest, nuzzling his cheek between big velvety ears.

“You’re okay,” he coos. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be sorry.”

Hunk relaxes in his arms, blankets moving as his tail wags beneath them. Lance kisses the top of his head and combs his fingers though his fur in slow, soothing strokes.

“Maybe now he’ll finally calm down,” Shiro murmurs.

“Was he aggressive with you guys?” Lance asks apprehensively.

“Not beyond a few warning growls.” Shiro tilts his head. “He mellowed out after Allura gave him the painkiller but he was confused, of course. Couldn’t find you, couldn’t walk very well.”

“He still can’t walk well,” Allura says, sympathetically patting Hunk’s flank.

“Is it broken?” Lance chews his lip.

“No, but those wounds are deep and painful, and he’s in a very weak state.” Allura continues patting him through the shark comforter. “When he’s shifted back, it’ll be his turn to go to the ER. For now the best we can do is warmth and fluids.”

This is when Lance notices Hunk is on an IV. A thin tube tethers his foreleg to a saline pouch that someone hung on the wooden coat rack, in lieu of an actual IV pole.

“Is he still in danger?” Lance asks nervously, grip on Hunk protectively tightening.

“I don’t believe he’s in any immediate danger, no. I can’t be completely certain because I know next to nothing about Hunk’s peculiar biology.” Allura’s forehead creases. “The vitamin k successfully restored his blood’s ability to clot, but he’d already lost quite a bit and I’m concerned about potential infection.”

“Infection,” Lance repeats, voice small.

“I opted for a secondary closure due to its potential. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious, but Hunk’s already frail and he cannot afford an infection.” Allura rubs her hand down the ridge of Hunk’s spine. “I did what I can, but he really needs a second look with proper accommodations.”

“I’ll run him up as soon as he’s human-shaped,” Lance swears, nodding vehemently.

“I’ll do it,” Shiro offers. “You should rest.”

“I don’t mind.” Lance gently lowers Hunk’s head into his lap. “We’ve got some time before he’s human-shaped anyway.”

“It’s gonna look weird for you to show up twice in such a short amount of time.” Pidge pipes in, wrinkling her nose.

“I doubt anyone would remember me. It was super busy in there.”

“You’re still wearing the hospital bracelet, Lance.”

“Oh.”

Hunk huffs a soft sound and closes his eyes, seemingly comfortable. Lance idly scratches at one of his ears.

“Anyway, Allura, where’d you get all the supplies?” Pidge asks, blinking dubiously.

“Well…” Allura clears her throat and mumbles something under her breath.

“What was that?”

“I stole it from my office,” she admits only loud enough to be audible, giving a guilty wince.

“You, steal?” Keith echoes in disbelief, leaning his elbows on the counter.

“I had no choice, obviously this was an emergency. And Hunk is much bigger than most of our patients, so I had to gather an excess to be sure I’d have enough. “

Lance turns at the waist and leans over, pulling Allura into a hug. She makes a short, birdlike noise of surprise and slowly hugs him back.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, trying not to choke up. He thinks of Hunk sprawled and slack on the kitchen floor and swallows thickly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Allura insists.

“He would’ve died if it weren’t for you,” Lance says solemnly, releasing her.

“I just hope I’ve done enough.” Allura sighs and wearily leans back into the new beanbag.

“Is he up to date on his shots?” Shiro asks. “Tetanus, at least?”

“Not sure,” Lance admits.

“Well, he can tell us in the morning, right?”

“Us?” Lance tilts his head. “You guys are staying?”

“I am,” Pidge says, pushing off the kitchen counter and ambling into the living room to plop down next to Allura.

Allura scoots to give her some room to share the beanbag. “Of course I’m staying. I’ll need to change Hunk’s IV.”

“And I was going to stay up to keep an eye on him,” Shiro adds. “Just in case.”

“You didn’t think we’d just leave you to take care of him by yourself, did you?” Keith crosses his arms.

Lance breaks into a tired smile. “Guess not. Whoever wants to have my bed can take it, I’m gonna crash right here. Unless you think I’ll hurt him if I’m too close.”

Lance frowns. He isn’t much of a tosser or turner, he usually goes out hard. But on the off chance he were to toss or turn, he wouldn’t want to accidentally kick or hit Hunk.

“I’m sure he’d be fine, but would you?” asks Allura. “He takes up most of the futon.”

“Honestly, I’m so tired, I could sleep in a cave.”

“Hard same,” Pidge yawns, grabbing a quilt from the pile of blankets that evidently didn’t make it into Hunk’s nest. She pulls it over herself as she plops head head in Allura’s lap.

“I’m not a pillow.”

“Yes you are.”

“Why don’t you take Lance’s room?”

“You might need help with Hunk.”

With that, Pidge rolls over and buries her face into Allura’s stomach. Her pillow of choice is usually Hunk no matter what version, but if he’s indisposed, she’ll just pick whoever’s closest. Allura submits to being a pillow, lightly carding her fingers through Pidge’s hair.

Lance peels back a layer of blanket, prepared to shimmy in as he would a sleeping bag and…finds himself pausing. For a moment, Lance hesitates, eyes sliding to the neatly printed identification wristband they tagged him with in the ER. Hunk breathes a noise like a sigh, tired gaze blinking at Lance.

The bad thoughts are dispelled before they can fully surface and Lance silently scolds himself. Hunk wouldn’t hurt him again. He probably hadn’t even meant to in the first place. It was a freak thing, right?

Lance shrugs off the fear before it can creep in and crawls beneath the blanket. Carefully curling into Hunk’s flank, he breathes a sigh of his own into thick fur. Hunk welcomes his presence with a quick lick behind the ear and Lance feels even guiltier for hesitating.

Shiro presents him with a throw pillow and Lance blinks, wearily lifting his head. Smiling gently, Shiro kindly wedges it beneath and Lance is out as soon as he lets his head drop.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, Hunk and Shay not liking chocolate in the main fic wasn't random. Bringing down a beastie with silver bullets is so overrated. Let's kill them with candy.


End file.
